


blink and you'll miss it

by SpectralHeart



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Daydreaming, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heart Attacks, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, People Watching, Romantic Fluff, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 22:21:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21064133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpectralHeart/pseuds/SpectralHeart
Summary: “So, what’s a good-looking guy like you doing all alone out here on such a lovely day?” the man asks.Roman can feel his face turning the same pink as the brightly-coloured branches above. "Writing stories.""Stories?" In an instant, the man is rapt. “Can you tell me one?”





	blink and you'll miss it

**Author's Note:**

> wahoOOO we love english class!! i'm pretty sure this is the first and last creative writing assignment i'm gonna get this year, so y'already know how i decided i would make the most of it... write the gayest fic imaginable, change the names, badabingbadaboom INSTANT 100%--
> 
> so yeah, that's why this is a shorter one, not to mention the slightly different style. that said, i am honestly really happy with how it turned out!! hopefully you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it <33
> 
> take care, darlings!!

At times like these, where the sun hangs an hour away from the center of the sky and the weather is just cool enough to allow one to comfortably wear a jacket and still look fashionable, Mr. Roman C. Knightly can oft be found in the same place: seated comfortably beneath the boughs of a wisteria tree in a park of the same name.

He has been here since eight in the morning. He intends to stay until at least eight at night. The neatly-trimmed grass around him will be brown and dried and all manner of dead within the next month or so—gone as quickly as it came—but for now it remains a tasteful cushion of green, and Roman means to take full advantage while it lasts. 

He taps the end of a fountain pen against the leatherbound cover of his favourite (that is, most expensive) moleskine notebook. Roman C. Knightly never was one for doing things halfway.

The wind whispers through the leaves above. Around him, the same birdsong he’s heard a hundred times—an arrogant bunch, these park birds, each one unwilling to change, each one believing his own song to be the prettiest. Countless pairs of slightly-less-nice-shoes-than-his crunch past on the gravel path winding before him. The rangers of Wisteria Park claim it stretches all the way from one end of the park to the other. Roman has half a mind to test this claim and walk the whole path someday, as he so often sees people doing from his vantage point beneath the tree. 

Not today, though—today, Roman is hard at work. The cogs in his head turn as he watches shoes crunch past not with the eye of a casual observer, but that of a seasoned storyteller. He notes clothing, facial expression, posture, whether they walk alone or in a group, and with all this information he creates a character in less than an instant. Roman is of the firm belief that art in the highest form should always imitate life, and what better way to create realistic characters than to pull one directly from _ real _life?

For this reason, Roman people-watches. He’s grown to be quite good at it, too.

Take, for example, the woman passing him by right now. Short hair. Small hands. Neatly dressed, but for the single unbuttoned button on the cuff of her sleeve. She passes a mostly-empty coffee cup—_ reusable plastic straw, _ Roman notes—from one hand to the other as she walks, then uses her now-fully-empty free hand to adjust the position of the cell phone her shoulder clamps to her ear. A slight wobble in her step indicates she’s unused to walking in high heels on such uneven terrain; an even slighter slouch indicates she’s been doing it for quite some time today already. Roman is too far away to make out exactly what she’s saying, but her frenzied expression tells all.

Up from the murky waters of the imagination, a name surfaces: _ Cheryl? _

It’ll do. 

Cheryl, Roman decides, shutting his eyes, is quite the important young woman. Her face may not be well-known just yet, but it certainly will be as soon as her request for a patent on her ground-breaking invention has been granted. Perhaps she’s always had a passion for environmental issues, which began the day her second-grade teacher and role model showed her class the most wonderful little documentary.

For several years she’s been hard at work as the founder of an ecologically-focused startup dedicated to finding a solution to the plastic problem, and months ago her company finally found it—but now she’s got a whole new problem to contend with: her requests keep getting “lost” somehow, and Cheryl’s starting to grow suspicious.

Roman nods to himself, jotting down some key points in his notebook. _ Not bad, Knightly. _

Or maybe he could turn his attention to the young set of identical twins playing on the monkey bars at the bottom of the next hill over. Their parents are nowhere to be seen, Roman realizes with a start.

Perhaps they’ve run away from home then. One grew tired and resentful of their monotonous life, of the homeschooling keeping them cooped up whenever chores did not. The other was a little more hesitant to leave at first, but always did admire their older twin’s (two point five hours older, as his puffed-out chest would often boast) penchant for adventure.

These were no ordinary twins, however—unbeknownst to them, today would mark a turning point in their history which would forever change the fate of humanity. They’d come to understand that their parents really had only been looking out for their best interests when they found themselves the wielders of mysterious powers they didn’t understand… er, or maybe found themselves on the run from… evil… evil masked spirits—?

_ Forget it, that’s stupid. _ Eyes open; a pen scribbles mercilessly across the page. _ The whole super-twins trope is so overdone anyway. Why not something a little more realistic? _

The third time Roman C. Knightly looks up, his breath is taken away.

_ Handsome man. Twelve o’clock. _ Roman’s hands shake at the sight. Bleached blond hair and warm brown eyes—ugh, what a cliché—both of which have no business looking so bright against the man’s dark skin. 

No, _ bouncing _ hair. _ Laughing _eyes. This man is nimble fingers and shameless smiles and the warmth of freshly-dried laundry in the mornings, and Roman’s most expensive moleskine notebook falls to the ground, forgotten.

He thinks he might be falling, too.

And goodness, have you ever heard anything more unoriginal? Roman was meant to be the storyteller today, but here he is, thrown headfirst into a story he wants no part in. _ A beautiful stranger? Love at first sight? _How predictable! How conventional! How—how—

_ How wonderful, _ the wind whispers through the leaves. 

As far as Roman’s concerned, the wind has overstayed its welcome. He wants to tell it to be quiet. He doesn’t quite know how.

So instead, because it’s all he has left, Roman closes his eyes and imagines.

The story he writes is a very different scene than usual. In it, the man does not become rich, or famous, or sprout wings or clone himself or anything similarly outlandish. He does not go on a great quest to rescue a dragon from a princess. There isn’t even a single wedding to be seen! 

The man does none of this, because in Roman’s story, he simply keeps on walking past.

He leaves. Roman stays, and later that day as the same sun dips below two different horizons he’s already forgotten all about the man. And he’ll come back tomorrow to the very same spot, surrounded by the very same birdsong and with the very same view of the path he swears he’ll walk one day, and perhaps the grass will have grown ever-so-slightly longer but absolutely nothing else will change. End of story; happily ever after, ad infinitu—

“Are you… okay?”

His eyes fly open with a jolt. _ Not anymore, _Roman thinks grumpily, until he looks up a second later and realizes who the voice belongs to.

This was _ not _supposed to be part of the story.

He glances down, then up, trying to will the man away, and for a moment he thinks he sees the man’s image flicker—but then a hand is on his shoulder; strong, and firm, and… surprisingly warm.

Inwardly, Roman curses his thoughts’ betrayal.

“You—you kinda looked like you were starting to panic there,” the man tries again. “Sorry, did I interrupt something? I can leave if you want.”

_ Yes. _ “No, it’s fine.” _ Damn it! _

“Oh, good.” The man smiles. Roman thinks he might literally melt. “So… does that mean it’d be alright for me to stay?”

_ Absolutely not, _Roman tries to say, but he’s too distracted by the fact that from up close, he can literally trace out constellations swimming in the man's dark irises, which by all accounts shouldn’t even be possible. His mouth moves without his mind’s permission: “Well, it’d be a shame for me to hog this beautiful tree all to myself, wouldn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t call it _ hogging,” _replies the man with an amicable shrug. “A lone figure beneath a cherry tree makes for a pretty romantic picture, after all. I’d hate to ruin it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it _ ruining, _ either. What kind of romance would this be without a second person?”

“Touché,” the man replies, and plops down beside Roman. Their arms brush for a moment as he does so; fortunately, the small squeak Roman lets out at the unexpected contact is masked by a particularly loud chirp from the birds gathering above.

He feels like he should say something. “Also, it’s, um, it’s a wisteria tree. Not cherry.”

The man looks surprised for a moment, and Roman instantly regrets every single time he’d ever opened his mouth from conception until now. He’s ruined it, hasn’t he? He and this man were having a nice little chat and he just _ had _ to go and be the know-it-all— 

“Huh, guess that’s why they call it Wisteria Park. Can’t believe I never made that connection.” There’s a note of laughter in the man’s voice. In Roman’s relief, he can’t help but laugh along. “So,” he continues, “if it’s alright to ask, what’s a good-looking guy like you doing all alone out here on such a lovely day?”

Roman can feel his face turning the same pink as the brightly-coloured branches above. _ He called me good-looking! _“Writing stories,” is all he manages to get out.

In an instant, the expression on the man’s face changes from one of casual interest to one of rapt delight. “Stories? You’re an author?”

“Aspiring,” Roman shrugs. “Actually, I haven’t managed to get anything published just yet. Everything kind of tends to stay in my head. That’s why I’m here, though—it’s, um, a hobby of mine to observe people and make up stories about them.” For the first time, Roman is uncomfortably aware of how strange the words must sound.

The man isn’t discouraged, though. “Can you tell me one?”

“A story?”

“Yeah. Tell me about…” He points to an awfully familiar face. “Her.”

“Oh! Well, um, that’s Cheryl…”

Roman begins nervously, but when the man’s intrigue doesn’t seem fade, he picks up steam. He gestures with his hands as he talks animatedly, and when he’s done the first story, the excitement on the man’s face prompts him to tell another—then another, and another, on and on until the sun hangs low in the sky. 

The world has been doused in champagne. Of this, Roman is certain. It glows golden around them as far as the eye can see—and his chest feels curiously warm and the edges of his vision curiously fuzzy—and how else might he explain the strange _ something _ bubbling up inside?

At last, the man is the first to get up. “Look, I really hate to leave, but I’ve gotta get home before dark. It was really nice to meet you, though.”

“Oh,” says Roman, suddenly subdued. “Of course.”

The silence that follows hangs heavy between them. The man looks expectant, but for what, Roman isn’t sure. 

When he finally speaks again, it’s with a touch of disappointment. “I’ll… I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

“Yeah,” Roman replies vaguely. There’s something else he wants to say, too, but the words get caught in his throat somewhere. 

An emotion flickers across the man’s face—too quick to identify—and then his back is turned and he’s walking away, a lone figure on a gravel path. As Roman watches him go, there’s the peculiar sense of having lost something.

It’s only when the man is nearly out of earshot that Roman realizes that in all the time the two of them have been sitting together, he never once thought to ask for the man’s name.

“Wait! Please, wait!” The shout explodes out of him before he knows what he’s doing. When the man turns, sun illuminating his head of sandy curls like a tightly coiled halo, Roman’s breath is nearly taken away; still he barrels onward before he can lose his nerve. “I’m Roman Knightly!”

The man’s returning smile is lopsided in its sincerity; dazzling all the same. “Patton Lovelock,” he shouts in response. His voice echoes across the park—_Patton Lovelock, Patton Lovelock, Patton Lovelock—_and Roman thinks he might faint with joy.

From his vantage point beneath the tree, Roman waves. “A pleasure to meet you, Patton Lovelock!” If it were anyone else he were talking to, Roman would surely feel quite foolish to be shouting back and forth like this, but there’s something about the man—Patton—that makes the rest of the world feel like it’s not even real. “You’ll come back tomorrow?”

The sun could not shine brighter than Patton’s face does then. “I thought you’d never ask.”

***

Patton did come back the next day. That was the first surprise. He came back the next, too, and the next and the next and the next, until Roman stopped being surprised at all. Side by side they’d sit, each time just a touch closer than the last, telling stories until the sun went down. 

Eventually, champagne days turned to velvet nights—soft and quiet and rich with a feeling too potent for Roman’s words to describe. Hushed movements, charged gazes, the gentle weight of an arm around a shoulder. Through it all, the birds sang.

They shared their first kiss under the stars. That was the second surprise. Had it been anyone else, Roman wouldn’t have been able to stand how cliché the whole thing was, but for some reason he didn’t mind when he was with Patton.

The third surprise was the best. By then, they’d long since moved past kisses beneath the wisteria tree, past kisses on picnic blankets and past kisses in coffee shops, moving and moving until the day Patton moved in. They were hand-in-hand, finally taking Roman’s long-awaited walk down the full path of Wisteria Park, when it happened.

“Hold on, there’s a rock in my shoe,” said Patton. It was the chance Roman had been waiting for—as Patton knelt to untie it, Roman’s hand subtly slipped into his back pocket to retrieve something, all the while pretending to idly take in the view around them. “Alright, got it.” 

The view awaiting Roman when he looked back was one he’d never forget: Patton down on one knee, brandishing the most beautiful ring Roman had ever seen.

“I know you’re usually the storyteller,” Patton had begun, “but just this once, let me give it a shot, okay? Once upon a time… the world’s most ordinary man ran into the world’s most extraordinary park, and his world changed forever. Roman, I—why are you laughing?”

“Sorry, it’s not… I just…“ Roman pulled his hand out of his pocket to reveal a small box. As Patton’s bright eyes lit up even brighter with realization, Roman knelt. “Plot twist, am I right?”

Their wedding had been held in the very same park exactly a year later; they’d exchanged vows beneath the same tree where they’d first met. (Roman was starting to understand the appeal in clichés by then.) As they grew older, their lives eventually took them away from the idyllic little park and into a big city a few hours away, but they made a point to drive back and visit the park together on their anniversary every year to watch the wisteria tree grow. 

Until the year their car pulled up to an overcrowded parking lot and a massive construction site in place of the green grass they’d been expecting, with the biggest bulldozer parked right where the tree had been. That was the fourth surprise, but it was nowhere near as bad as the fifth.

The fifth surprise: this morning, Roman received a call while he was working from home. 

“Is this Roman Lovelock?”

“Speaking,” Roman replied absently, keeping his eyes on the screen all the while (he was wrestling with a particularly tough sentence at the time). 

“Mr. Lovelock, this is the East Valley Clinic. Your husband’s just suffered a heart attack.”

***

“Where is he?”

“Mr. Lovelock, please relax. We’re doing everything we can—”

“_Where is he?” _Roman repeats, even more panicked the second time. He feels lightheaded. He feels ready to throw up. He feels… a gentle draft blowing in from somewhere, which is odd considering the room has no windows, but at the moment that is the very least of his concerns.

“You’ll be allowed to see your husband once he’s stable, sir, please just—”

“Roman Lovelock?” interrupts a new voice. Two heads turn to stare at the nurse entering.

“That’s me,” Roman tries to say. The words came out no louder than a whisper, like that of wind through leaves._ There’s that draft again. _

The nurse beckons. “Your husband just regained consciousness. He’s asked to see you.” 

Relief floods Roman from head to toe; mutely, he follows the nurse down the hall, carefully observing her all the way in an effort to distract himself from what might be waiting at the end of it. 

She has kind eyes, but not as kind as Patton’s were. 

_ Are, _ Roman corrects himself with a start. _ Not as kind as Patton’s eyes _ are, _ and will continue to be, after the two of us get away from this damn hospital and its damn drafts. _

They turn into a small room near the end of the hallway. In part, Roman is expecting the sight that awaits, but it still hits _ hard_. Patton lies in bed, dressed in nothing but a frail hospital gown and looking exceptionally frail himself among the massive machines that surround him. His skin, usually so robust and dark, seems several shades paler; his kind eyes, dull and dim. He glances at the two of them as they walk in. Within the same instant, Roman is at his side.

“Pat,” is all he gets out before he feels something wet on his cheek.

“Hey, hey, hey,” soothes the man lying in bed. “Don’t cry. I’ll be okay.” 

Which only makes Roman feel worse; _ he _ should be the one comforting _ Patton_. “I feel so useless. Isn’t there something I can do? What do you want—do you want a snack, or something?”

“No, it’s fine. Honestly.” Patton lies in silence for a bit, then seems to reconsider: “Actually… can you tell me a story?”

Roman sniffles. “A story?”

“Yeah. Make it all up. Something tells me you’re already doing that right now, aren’t you?”

A long pause. Roman isn’t sure if he can do this right now, but then he takes another look at Patton and his resolve hardens. This isn’t about him. “Once upon a time,” he starts, “there was a great, big, beautiful tree, and under that tree sat a lonely, lonely man. And because the man was so lonely, he’d make imaginary friends out of the people walking past, and he’d give them imaginary lives and tell himself that it was all for the sake of art, but deep down he knew the truth wasn’t so simple. Not much in the man’s life was simple, really. Which was entirely on purpose. Until the day a second man came along, and—and the first man realized just how lovely simple could be.”

He falters. Patton looks up. “Don’t stop.” His voice sounds different; faraway, somehow.

“Well, the first man kind of grew to like the second man.” 

To Roman’s left, a machine starts beeping. 

“And, weirdly enough, the second man sort of liked him back.” 

Patton doesn’t seem to hear it, though. 

“And eventually they liked each other so much that they promised they’d spend the rest of their lives together.” 

The beeps are getting louder. Roman wonders where the nurse is.

“But it might turn out that that isn’t a very long time, for one of them,” he manages. “And that might scare the first man a little bit.”

As he listens, Patton’s breathing starts to change from a steady in-and-out to a bizarre kind of rustle; the draft is back, too. Strangest of all is the beeping: if Roman didn’t know better, he’d swear it sounded exactly like birdsong.

He gulps. “But a promise… is a promise.” Tightly, he grips Patton’s hand in his. Or, he tries to—for some reason, he can’t seem to get a hold on it. Roman’s eyes squeeze shut as tears blur his vision once and for all. “And… and…”

_ And… _

And Roman opens his eyes to find himself in a very familiar location that, by all accounts, should definitely not still exist. 

Wind whispers. Around him, the same birdsong he’s heard a hundred times. Shoes crunch on gravel. The sun hangs an hour away from the centre of the sky.

Roman glances toward the path to see the retreating back of a familiar figure, and it’s only then that he realizes that perhaps he got a little _ too _invested in that particular story.

The next place he looks is his expensive moleskine notebook. Brows shot up when he sees that all but one page has been filled with writing. The last page holds only five letters:

** _ THE EN_ **

And indeed, this ought to be where the story ends. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? He’s gone through the familiar story arc already: boy meets boy, falls in love, gets a little character development, then it all wraps up with the tragic yet bittersweet ending. A formulaic bestseller. He ought to hurry up and finish this one already so he can move on to another, then.

But as he goes to write in the last letter, something stops him. He’s not finished quite yet, is he? He only got about halfway through the ending before the daydream broke.

And Roman C. Knightly never was one for doing things halfway.

So although hundreds of potential stories crunch by, he pays no attention to any but the one with the bouncing hair and the laughing eyes. His most expensive moleskine notebook falls to the ground, truly forgotten this time. Roman jumps to his feet. Before he knows it, he’s running.

“Wait! Please, wait!”


End file.
